Otholdis thought she was going to die. She had thought as such for every day for the past two weeks and had made her feelings known to anyone that was foolish enough to wander within range of her. The weather had been dreadful, the food had been bland (at the very best), and there'd been nothing to do except watch the scenery and stew in her boredom. One would expect a bit more excitement out of Mordor.

She'd been a bit impressed when the party had traversed through the Morgul Vale. The horrid, craggy cliffs and fell aspect of the valley had been worth a marvel or two. Minas Ithil had much the same effect, and the party had stopped to stare in fearful wonder when they passed it on the road. By the decree of the King its destruction was underway and much of the great tower at its centre had been unbuilt. Still, the fallen city had held an air of wickedness that kept their voices hushed, and they travelled in a pensive silence even when the city was many leagues behind them.

Yes, it was apparent that all of the excitement of the trip had already been had and now, nearly halfway to Nurn, there were only long, empty days ahead of them. Otholdis couldn't imagine spending any more time on the road. Especially not sharing such close quarters with …him.

Otholdis had been hoping for, at the very least, a pleasant start to their journey. Perhaps a few days where there would be some peace between her and Aharenor.

It had not been so.

The leader of the party, a broad, grey-haired man who had introduced himself as "Hithaer", had greeted Aharenor at the city gates. He'd also greeted Otholdis with a kiss on the hand, to which Otholdis had looked expectantly at Aharenor. He gave no indication that he'd noticed and asked the captain if he thought there'd be much rain on their journey.

After the two men's little conversation, Otholdis had thought it as good a time as ever to show Aharenor the luggage she had "packed".

"I thought I said that you were to bring one trunk," said Aharenor, keeping his voice quiet in the company of their fellow party-members.

"And what of it? Would you like to have a conversation about this in front of all of these kind people?" Said Otholdis. She had a steely look about her that just begged him to press her on the matter.

"No, No. I-… never mind," He grumbled. "Did you pack these yourself?"

"No," she said, and to Aharenor's embarrassment, began calling over some of the party's soldiers to lift her luggage into one of the provision wagons. They eyed Aharenor questioningly, but did as his fiancé told them, and when the captain of the party came to him and asked if such cargo was necessary, Aharenor said yes. When the captain asked him again, this time with an amused glint in his eye, Aharenor told him that if he wished the company to remain sane, his betrothed would have her luggage.

And so, for a span of perhaps fifteen minutes, Otholdis felt like a great conqueror. Yes, what she wanted is what she got, and her victory that morning had assured her of that fact. But then, the farewells came. A small gathering of people came to wave the party off, mostly friends and family. Aharenor's parents had come and wished him well, as had several friends of his, fellow high-born men who told him to bring back stories of his "Adventures in Mordor." They had all laughed merrily at that. Even his sisters, their husbands, and their children had come and spared him a few parting words. His nieces and nephews had clung to his legs and pulled at his sleeves, and many laughs had been shared over their poor attitudes.

There had been no such farewell for Otholdis.

Yes, her father had come. But he'd been so quick to say goodbye that she'd barely been able to say anything back to him before he hurried off to what he said was "important business." Hildy's family, who had come to heap their blessings of safety upon the girl, spared Otholdis a few unsure smiles. But that had been it. And while the company's members held their loved ones and promised that they would be back before long, Otholdis had waited by her wagon of trunks, watching them all. As dispirited as she felt, she still maintained the small hope that her brother would appear as he had promised. But as the farewellers dispersed and the company took a final count of its provisions, Otholdis's hopes dwindled and dwindled until it became apparent that Aglorn would not be coming. She wondered if she had been the reason.

Otholdis's tent, which she laid prone in doing her best to conjure up memories of her bed, was small and plain and situated directly next to his. Their close quarters would not be so unbearable if Aharenor's attitude had been better, but during their travels he'd been dull and distant. It was horrible, just horrible, and Otholdis had a feeling that she would soon reach the limits of her patience.

"Such a pretty lady. I don't deserve you, do I?"

Otholdis head perked up. In the two weeks of travel since leaving Minas Tirith, she hadn't heard more from Aharenor that he needed her to. But now here he was, outside her tent and whispering lowly.

"I wish that we were back home so that I could spoil you, you poor thing."

Otholdis felt her face grow hot. Well she hadn't expected that. No sooner did she hear it did her heart take up a nervous, if titillated, beat and send her thinking of what sort of uncouth "spoiling" Aharenor might be referring to.

"Apples, pears, carrots…"

"Produce? That's fine I suppose, but I wouldn't count that as spoiling," thought Otholdis. The food had been less than desirable since they'd crossed into Mordor. Perhaps he thought she was in want of a proper meal? Or perhaps it was some sort of strange innuendo, and what he meant to say was that-

"…and a nice big pile of hay."

Otholdis blanked.

"I fear you are my only friend out here, Buttermilk."

Otholdis tore back the tent flap and her confusion turned to a flat disappointment. There was Aharenor, happier than he had looked all week, having his hair nibbled on by a horse. It and Aharenor turned to look at Otholdis in unison.

"Otholdis. I thought you were out taking a walk?" said Aharenor.

"Yes, well I decided to retire early after realising how dreadful a place this is for strolling," said Otholdis, not hiding her ire.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" Asked Aharenor. The horse started nuzzling his face and he pushed it away with a laugh.

"No," growled Otholdis.

"Oh good. Say, I found a name for her," he said, motioning to the mare that had moved on to pulling at his boot laces. He clucked at it and it shied off of him with a guilty look.

"She's a bit too nosy, isn't she? I know I shouldn't find the lack of manners charming, but I do. Heavens, the horses from the army are usually better behaved than this. But I guess being ridden by diplomats and noble-folk has lead her to believe she can get away with any nonsense-"

"Aharenor. The name?"

"Ah, yes. Buttermilk. For her coat."

"That's a rather childish name, don't you think?" Said Otholdis bitterly,

"I think it's a very pleasant name and that it suits her nicely. What would you have me call her?"

"Nothing at all. It's a horse, Aharenor."

Aharenor frowned at her and stood to take Buttermilk back towards the rest of the company's mounts. Walking away from their tents, he could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head.

He could have left her in Minas Tirith.

He should have left her in Minas Tirith.

But Aharenor could not imagine the gossip if he had decided to leave Otholdis behind.

Not long after the first parties had been sent south to the lands of Nurn had men of high birth joined them. Women even. It had become the fashion of ambassadors and emissaries to bring their wives and wives-to-be along as a diplomatic gesture of good faith. To bring a tender of the hearth into foreign lands communicated a trust that was not easily won. A woman's warmth, also, was often welcome in the travelling camps, where the dirtied faces of men became a tired sight.

Goodness, what would be said of Aharenor if he didn't bring his betrothed? That he thought the Nurn-folk too uncivilised for a good woman of Gondor? That he doubted the ability of the king's men to keep her safe? Or worse… That he didn't love her? That he had other reasons for their marriage?

No, leaving her behind had not been an option, no matter how dearly he wished it had.

Aharenor brought Buttermilk to the small clearing at the edge of the party's encampment and gave her a few tender kisses before tying her up with the rest of the horses. Her fellows were reaching for the tender spring buds that belonged to the trees they were tied to.

He did not expect to see greenery so soon into their travels, for much of the way through Gorgoroth had been marked by black earth and crumbling rock. But the trees near the mountains, which he was told had been grey and naked for years before the fall of the Dark Lord, had by some good magic regained their leaves and woken up again.

"Aharenor. May I share a word with you?"

Aharenor turned from the horses to see the party captain, Hithaer (if he remembered correctly), greeting him with a warm smile.

"Certainly. What is it?" Asked Aharenor.

"How is your wife? Is she keeping well?"

"Betrothed," blurted Aharenor. Realising how quickly he had corrected the man, he groaned and did his best to salvage the conversation. "Apologies. She is…my betrothed. We are not yet married."

Hithaer laughed at the man's outburst. It was not an unkind laugh, but it put a touch of resentment in Aharenor's heart all the same. If he only knew the pains he'd suffered…

"Ah yes, forgive me. I forgot. How is your betrothed, then?"

"She is doing well," said Aharenor, though his words did little to hide his exhaustion. Hithaer, with an empathetic glint in his eye, gave Aharenor a firm pat on the back and motioned that they should walk together. Aharenor obliged.

"Don't worry, I'm sure it's just the excitement of it all. Her good nature will return eventually. My wife was just as pettish when we were betrothed. We had many arguments then, and looking back it was just our nerves getting the better of us. Marriage is a serious thing, and I think we were both a little scared of that. But don't worry, your happiest days are ahead of you," said Hithaer.

"Thank you, Hithaer. Your words are comforting. I don't believe you ever mentioned having a wife."

"Aye. I lost her during the siege. She was in the lower levels of the city."

"Oh, I'm, I'm terribly sorry-,"

"No worries, I've made my peace with it."

They walked until the horses were a ways behind them and the trees grew dense. The air that evening was clear and nippy with the chill of early spring. Aharenor and the captain finally arrived at the top of a small hill from which they could see the encampment down below. Hithaer sighed and seemed to remember something.

"Ah, yes. What I was going to speak to you about…" Said Hithaer. His holding, which had been rather casual for much of their walk, suddenly turned stiff and formal. "I've spoken to the other men, and it's been agreed upon by all of us that it would be best if we went no closer to the mountains."

"Go no closer? We're hardly close at all. You know what I told you at the beginning of all this-" said Aharenor, but Hithaer stopped him.

"I know. And while I respect your authority on this matter, I must give you my own advice as someone who has led expeditions such as these. To go any nearer to the mountains is to chance something foul happening. We're trying our luck as it is. And while I do admit that it would be… unlikely to run afoul of any dark creatures, I'd rather not test the extent to which the rangers have cleared this area," said Hithaer.

"It's inefficient! It does nothing but add days to the journey," said Aharenor, smiling in the perturbed sort of way that one does when in too-polite of company to frown.

"We stake these paths for their reliability, not for their efficiency," said Hithaer, and Aharenor was taken aback, and more than a little upset, to hear the typically-well-mannered man adopt such a prickly tone with him. He was so surprised that he couldn't think to come up with an argument in return, and simply nodded his head.

"I suppose… that you are right. Then we can move back towards the path tomorrow, if you're truly so worried," said Aharenor. Not wanting to seem too submitting, he quickly added-

"But I still see no reason to prolong our travels any more than necessary. You'll be the one to deal with any complaints from our hosts in Nurn should we not arrive on time."

"Thank you, Aharenor. And I will gladly take the blame if we are late."

"Hmph, yes, well, I mean it. I think you'll find that caution comes at a cost."

"Perhaps I will. Again, my deepest thanks, Aharenor. I suppose that was all I wished to speak to you about. It's getting dark, and I think there will be rain this evening. We'd better-"

The man's words were cut short by whistling hiss and then a thump. Hithaer gasped and stumbled forward. He looked down at the arrow sticking out of his chest and died on the spot.

After Aharenor had taken his leave, Otholdis had settled herself back into her tent, hoping that sleep would soon find her. It did not. A thought kept her eyes affixed upon the ceiling of her tent and would not give her rest. It was just a fleeting thought, really. Nothing much. Yet it kept her awake all the same.

It was the insistent notion that perhaps she had been a bit too stern with Aharenor.

He did not deserve any gentleness from her. Not after his blatant unfaithfulness. And yet, she'd felt less happy than she should have been when he'd stormed away from her that evening.

She resolved that she had best go find him and settle things between them. If nothing else, then for her own sake. It would be a bother dealing with an Aharenor that was even grumpier than he had been.

She opened the flap of her tent, and, seeing that Hildy was throwing a pale of water over the campfire between her and Aharenor's tents, called her over.

"Hildy. Have you seen Aharenor? I wish to speak with him," said Otholdis.

"No, M'lady. I've been off in the main camp readying things for nightfall. I would have seen him if he headed that way."

Otholdis huffed. Was he off sulking? Trying to make her wonder about him as she was now? She could just imagine him, arms crossed and sitting beneath a tree, pitying himself.

"M'lady, it's almost night. Do you wish anything of me before I retire to bed?" Asked Hildy.

"Some water, Hildy. Leave it by my tent for when I get back. But I'm going to need to get dressed first. I'm going to find that horrid man."

"Are you sure m'lady? It's getting awfully dark."

"Oh I'll be fine," assured Otholdis. And with that she had Hildy fetch a day dress from one of the chests near her tent. It would only be a short walk to find Aharenor, yes, but she didn't dare chance being seen in her nightgown by any of the soldiers. Hildy took out a fine looking lavender dress and helped Otholdis into it, and though Hildy tried to persuade her that it wouldn't be necessary to put on jewellery for an evening stroll, was made to grab an arrangement of earrings, bracelets, and a small ivory comb. Otholdis, not noticing what comb it was, had her stick it in the bun of hair at the nape of her neck. Otholdis was almost ready when she remembered that she hadn't the thinnest layer of makeup on.

So Hildy slaved over her lady's face, painting it with powder and black ink and blush. With that, Otholdis deemed herself decent enough to go out and bid the exhausted Hildy farewell. She walked off towards where Aharenor had gone.

And as she walked, it began to rain.

It began as a small drizzle, and then grew into a horrid, pouring shower that flattened her hair and made her dress heavy with water. Her freshly painted face was ruined in a matter of seconds. By the time she got to the horses she was regretting even considering making amends with Aharenor.

The tight grove of trees where the horses were tied was silent. Otholdis stared out at the horses. The horses stared back at her. She expected to see Aharenor among them, likely kissing their noses and sharing secrets with them, but she saw neither hide nor obnoxious, blonde hair of him. Just where had he gone off to?

The horse he'd been given for the journey, the cream one he'd dubbed "Buttermilk," was tied up beneath a tree and pinning its ears at Otholdis.

"Well I don't like you very much either," she said, and gave the horse her own little scowl. But then the horse behind Buttermilk threw its ears back, and the one next to it, and the other in front of it, until the whole gathering of horses were pinning their ears and showing the whites of their eyes.

The sight unnerved Otholdis.

"Yes, well, you're all horrible too," she said, the strength leaving her voice. Then came a whiney somewhere in the middle of the horses. One stamped its foot. Another kicked out at its neighbour. Soon the whole herd was stepping in place and moving about uneasily. Buttermilk was straining against the rope that tied her to her tree.

The woods looked so much darker than they had moments before. Otholdis decided that she wanted to go back to her tent. Immediately.

But then came a scream.

She realised at once that it was Aharenor's.

Suddenly men started shouting in the camp, and she heard the clattering of arms and armour. She could not see what was happening through the trees, but the fear in the mens' voices drew the warmth from her body all the same. The shouts turned into cries, then the clashing of metal on metal, metal on flesh, and through it all Otholdis could only stand and stare out into the forest from where it all came. A horse reared behind her and a hand latched onto her shoulder.

Otholdis screamed and tore away from it but it caught itself on her arm. She spun around to pry it off of her, shrieking all the while, and another hand came and slapped itself over her mouth. She nearly cried from relief when she saw whose it was.

"Quiet!" hissed Aharenor. He was panting fiercely and there was an undone look about him. Otholdis realised that his hand was wet with something warm. Tasting metal, she peeled it off her mouth and saw the blood. She sucked air and peddled backwards but Aharenor caught her again and pulled her close.

"Please, please make no noise. We must run, Otholdis. We must go, now," he panted.

"What is happening? Are we being attacked?" Asked Otholdis.

But Aharenor would not answer her. He began fiddling with Buttermilk's tie, desperately trying to undo the rope about the tree. The blood rushing down from his shoulder made the ends slip between his hands.

"We must go. We must, we m-must-" he stammered. He bore no resemblance to the poised, distant man that Otholdis had seen only an hour ago. Somehow, his fear scared her more than the noises from the camp. Finally, fighting through his own blood, he untied Buttermilk's rope and threw it in a loop around her neck.

"Here, I'll h-hoist you up," he said. Otholdis faltered. Aharenor had never shown much concern for her before. Of course that had been little to be concerned about for her in the past, but she hardly would have expected him to be the sort to come rushing to her rescue. It felt strange to be so warmed by his behaviour in such a moment. She took his hand, cringed when she felt the familiar wet warmth, and was thrust up upon the horse with such speed that she nearly fell over to the other side. She grasped Buttermilk's main and felt Aharenor clamber on behind her. Otholdis blushed when he leaned into her to grab his own fistfuls of the horse's hair. He thrust his heels into his steed's sides and they burst off through the forest. They quickly left the other horses behind, and when they came to a break in the trees, Otholdis looked behind her and saw death. The camp, growing farther and farther away with each beat of Buttermilk's hooves, was no longer hidden by the forest. She saw that it was completely overtaken. Among the tents and wagons and crates of supplies were orcs. At least two dozen of them. Some were locking blades with the party's soldiers. Some were wrapped around the men like spiders, sinking their teeth in their necks. Some were ripping into the bodies of the dead. Some were dead themselves. But all were dark, and hideous, and made wet by both blood and rain.

"Orcs!" She wailed. She had never seen the dark lord's creatures up close before. Not alive, at least. Back in Lossarnach, during the war, there would sometimes be bodies of orcs strung up at crossroads where they were known to pass on their way down from the mountains. The bodies, would-be raiders that had underestimated the farmers they were raiding, had made for an unsavory sight when passing on the road. But now, here were orcs behind her, alive and certainly fiercer than those from the White Mountains.

Aharenor was saying something in a panic.

Otholdis looked down behind her leg to see an arrow, no, two arrows, sticking out of Buttermilk's side. She hadn't even heard them hit the horse.

But Buttermilk, old battle-mare that she was, did not falter. She galloped on, and though her breaths became shallower and her steps more unsteady with each minute, she soon left the camp far behind them. All the while, Aharenor stroked her neck and cooed encouragements to her, and when she stumbled, assured her that she could go on a little longer, just a little longer. She carried them several leagues that way.

But soon it was too much even for Buttermilk and she gave out one shuddering groan. Her legs buckled and fell out from beneath her. She tumbled forward with a high, piercing whiny and rolled across the ground. Her two passengers shouted in surprise. Aharenor leapt from her back before he could be caught underneath her. Otholdis was not so quick, and rolled with the horse.

Otholdis felt herself go weightless and then it was as if the entire earth were pressing down on top of her. Something went 'pop' in her ankle, and then the weight rolled off of her. As soon as she was freed she jumped up to her feet, but yelped in surprise at the new pain above her foot.

Aharenor rushed over to Otholdis and took hold of her as they both looked down in grim silence at Buttermilk. The horse was shrieking and snorting out blood, kicking her legs out into the air as if she were still galloping through the trees.

"Otholdis, Otholdis are you alright?" Asked Aharenor, though his eyes stayed on his steed.

"My ankle, I think it might be broken. Or twisted, perhaps? I can't put any weight on it Aharenor," said Otholdis, gasping from the pain. Aharenor did not respond. He was still staring down at Buttermilk, a grey look coming over him. Buttermilk kicked out one final time, and then, with a sound that came rolling out like a great wind, went still.

"Aharenor?" Said Otholdis. She touched him where he had taken hold of her. It was such a strange thing, to be held like that at a time like that by a man like him. Otholdis

realized it was probably the first time he had ever shown her a kind touch, or any touch at all for that matter. It put a strange feeling in her belly that did not please her as she would have liked.

Aharenor turned away from Buttermilk with a shudder and looked down at Otholdis.

"Here, hold onto me," he said, and she did. Aharenor lifted her up into his arms all while the gash on his shoulder was stretched wide from the effort. He whimpered and winced from the embarrassment of being seen in such a state, but he did not allow himself to set her down. He walked forward through the rain. The thought of finding an arrow in his chest, as Hithaer had, kept him moving.